


Alike

by Claudaujay



Category: Beauty and the Beast (1991)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-16 02:49:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10562166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claudaujay/pseuds/Claudaujay
Summary: Belle is dead, and for Prince Adam, life has stopped. Grief weighs him down. Nothing that the servants say or do seems to help. That is, until a princess named Elaine Covette arrives at the castle, with brunette hair, chocolate eyes and ivory skin. She is exactly alike Adam's late wife... and he will do anything to make her his.





	1. Chapter 1

Alike

Prologue:

The sound of the piano rang out just as Maxime Covette reached his daughter's chambers. He froze where he stood, fingers still extended, bewitched into sudden silence. It was a beautiful melody- one of Mozart's most famous concertos. His extremely limited knowledge of music told him that it was in a minor key, and yet each note seemed to capture a sense of unparalled joy and happiness. This, Maxime knew full well, stemmed from the performer. He could imagine her fingertips flying across the black and white keys, like dancers embraced in a waltz. Her deep brown eyes would be closed, perhaps humming along under her breath. There was nothing in the world that she loved more than her instrument, and indeed, nothing he loved more than listening to her play.

The first theme of the piece began to develop, ornamented by trills and expertly induced scalic runs. Minutes passed in an apparent blur. He found himself leaning against the smooth wall of the corridor, which gleamed from the care and attention his servants clearly provided. All of a sudden, the purpose he had for coming to see his daughter didn't seem all that relevant. Such a thought couldn't be more false. Maxime had just received a much awaited letter from his messenger. The matter it spoke of needed immediate attention. But alas, such wonderful music would have a profound effect on anyone.

Far too soon it was coming to an end. A crescendo, an arpeggio played pianissimo, fading into the tonic chord. And then silence, as if the whole world were her audience. He sighed softly, and felt the urge to burst out into applause, but the end of the concerto marked the breaking of the enchantment upon him. Instantly, the importance of why he'd come reinstated itself in his mind. The silky fabric of the collar received a straightening.

'Elaine?' he called out. 'May I enter?'

Quiet for a moment, and then, 'Of course father.'

Maxime's fingers closed around the metallic handle of the door and it swung backwards, revealing one of the largest rooms in the mansion. The glass windows, each at least a metre wide, were open. Thin curtains were swept up in the midday breeze, and sunlight bathed the room in gold. On the polished surface of the fortepiano, the reflection was so bright he almost had to look away. A four poster bed lay to the left. All these luxuries made it fit to occupy royalty- if status was determined by appearances, Elaine would be queen. Long, brunette hair fell elegantly down her shoulders, highlighting the natural rosy tint of her delicate cheeks. She was stood up and clad in a silk white dress filled out by, no doubt, layers of laced petticoats. This angel always had a smile for him. Warm like the sun. Warm like her eyes. Even now, he failed to comprehend how he could've given life to someone so beautiful.

'Yes?' she said.

Maxime returned her smile, and slowly walked over to the side of the grand instrument. 'I heard you playing. Remind me, my darling, when it was you become such an accomplished virtuoso?'

The cheeks' flush deepened. 'Oh, you flatter me.'

'Hardly. It sounded wonderful.'

He pressed down on a white key. Middle C. The only note that retained it's place in memory from wasted lessons during his youth. It was this exact instrument where he'd learnt, and most likely where his own parents had learnt. Now, it was in the far more rewarding hands of Elaine, who from the sudden sound of a skirt brushing across the floor now evidently stood by his side.

'As a matter of fact, I've been practising this piece for awhile now, and can't seem to get it right,' she murmured. 'Mozart may be the greatest composer in the world, but sometimes his work on piano is so melancholy.'

He smiled gently at his daughter's typical meticulousness. 'I don't pretend to know anything about it.'

Her own smile returned. 'Maybe when I'm as old and experienced as you, I'll play it better.'

And then came her laugh, soaring, flying, caressing his ears, pure like the melody she spoke of. Infectious. Maxime joined in with her for a moment, and took her dainty fingers in his own. It would always be his wish to make her happy; this wish was what spurned a wave of unexpected apprehension shuddering through him.

'Despite the sheer multitude of praise I could lavish on your music skills, I am here with important news.'

Instantly, her face took on a more serious countenance. 'What is it, father?'

'Remember what I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, about the issue of cloth trading with the province of Lorraine? It would not be taken as an insult if you did forget, as a young woman need not bother herself with such dull matters. Nonetheless, I finally received my answer this morning.'

'Oh!' she exclaimed, with (excusably so) forced enthusiasm. 'Well, that's excellent.'

'Yes,' he said carefully, 'but it does mean I shall have to engage in negotiations with the nobility of that particular region. A week long visit will suffice. And, as you know, you are not quite old enough to be left here alone to your own devices.'

'I see.'

A lack of eagerness transformed into thinly veiled annoyance. Maxime had known Elaine hated meeting French aristocrats ever since her childhood. Such feelings he hoped she would outgrow by the time she reached her adoslecence. At the age of seventeen, he was still waiting. However, as a member of the higher class herself, it was obligatory and therefore unavoidable.

That didn't mean she was ever short of complaints.

'Father...' came the expected coo, in a tone used only in the art of persuasion, 'as much as a visit of his kind enthralls me, is there no possibility that I could, perhaps, remain here in Alsace? Just this once?'

'The province will run perfectly well in our absence, Elaine,' he replied gently. 'And besides, we've discussed this before. You'll have to get used to it at some point or other.'

'How could I possibly get used to having conversations with the most utterly drab, arrogant, conceited people in the entire-'

'That's quite enough. You are coming.'

The decisiveness in his voice cut her objection short, but not before the smallest hint of a pout appeared on her lip. She turned around and walked away from the piano. Maxime's own eyes narrowed.

'I don't what you expect from me sometimes,' he snapped. 'I've been lenient to you on other subjects.'

As it often is with words, the duke realised that the ones he'd chosen were harsh upon taking in their recipients reaction. While she'd merely been moving away from his touch, she now came to a stop. Her hands had been held by her sides. Now she drew them to her breast. He could imagine her facial expression like he could while she played. Brows raised slightly. Posture straightened. They'd agreed, without words, not to speak of this. Old wounds and quarrels had now without fullest intention been recalled.

Maxime sighed. Regret spurred him to risk a step closer: he was sure that her shoulders stiffened even more at the sound. The slightest twitches called up bittersweet memories. Habits too similar. It was something in the girl's personality. Too alike her mother.

'I'm sorry,' he murmured.

She didn't reply, and so he calmly closed the gap between them, reaching around her frame and reclaiming the hand. When rubbing palms together it became obvious how small it was, barely reaching the extent of his thumb. But it was smoother. Far less coarse from age. A youthful spark, clear when she turned around and met his gaze.

'I know. It's just... you know how hard that was for me...'

'Of course, my dear. It was extremely inconsiderate of me.' He tried to force a cheerful note back into his voice. 'Think of it this way- you must've heard all the gossip and rumours surrounding the prince of Lorraine, yes? Won't it be interesting to actually meet him?'

'I suppose so.'

The burning sun hadn't let up since he entered, and it splashed over Elaine's face, underlining her soft features all the more. It tugged at his heartstrings to see her appear so despondent towards him, but he sensed it would be better to give her some space. Maxime removed his hand.

'If you'll excuse me, I must go and sort out the travel arrangements for the visit.'

Reluctantly, he made his way back over to the wooden door and pulled it aside. Glancing round, he saw that his daughter hadn't moved from the previous spot. No smiles. Only a strange, almost faraway look. Distant, contemplative. He wished that he could read her emotions better.

The door closed with a small click. Mozart's concerto suddenly seemed much more sad than it had been beautiful.


	2. Chapter 1

Alike:

Chapter 1:

And they all lived happily ever after.

The words came to Prince Adam like an instinct. He must've heard them read aloud to him a hundred times- all the fairy tales of the Grimms brothers, dark but wonderful in their own special way, to Charles Perrault and his sweeping stories of romance, adventure and enchantment. They had an undeniable essence of finality. All the characters were safe, married or free, and the villain had (usually) got their just retribution. In some ways, a story didn't feel complete without them.

He was perched on the balcony of the West Wing. From it, one could see out across the grounds, into the woods and over to her old home in the village. Beyond that, on the horizon line, lay endless lines of hills that roamed on for eternity. The view was picturesque to say the least. Bushes trimmed to the shape of animals all shapes and sizes lay scattered below, fierce and proud. Water fountains were in abundance, guarded by cherubs spouting the clearest blue water. Summer had brought with it bright sun beams that bathed the walls of the castle in gold. In the distance, small clouds of smoke rose gently from the village chimneys and floated off like birds riding the wind. Such perfection, on a day as beautiful as this, could only be admired.

Happily ever after.

He snorted. The view never changed. It was always beautiful, even when it rained. Tiresome. Almost irritating. The sheer amount of hours that had been wasted, sat on this very spot, opposite the fine marble statue, once a gargoyle, appalled him. But old habits died hard. Or rather, didn't die at all.

Averting his gaze often helped, so as to pretend those perfect lines of shrubs weren't staring back. They mocked him for not taking pleasure from them. Not appreciating them.

Merde, he thought.

A distraction. That was what he required; something to take his mind off unwanted ponderings. The servants perhaps. Lumiere, the maitre'd, no doubt wearing his typical outfit (a yellow cravat and ochre cullotes), would be busy as always. Prince Adam imagined the Parisian supervising the kitchen staff, making his usual flamboyant gesticulations to emphasise where he wanted a particular piece of cutlery or flatware placed. Then, he might converse with Mrs Potts about the weather, or argue with Cogsworth over a small and insignificant matter that could be resolved in seconds. When he got a spare moment he'd disappear by means of a lesser known staircase to rendezvous with Babette. All simple and remarkably ordinary, inkeeping with a routine that had built up over time.

And what did his routine consist of? He would wake up in his chambers, located at the very back of the West Wing corridor. Most of the time dawn had long since passed, and large, luxurious curtains would be drawn tightly closed, smothering any sunlight from entering. A headache may rest like a malignant tumour on his brain, due to an over-indulgence in the castle's considerable collection of wines the previous night. At around midday he'd reluctantly persuade himself to get out of his king-sized bed and get dressed. Nothing too exuberant. A simple shirt and cape would suffice. Then, a stroll around the grounds and hallways. A look at those exquisite tapestries dating all the way back to who knows when. A grunt of hello to any passing servants.

Finally, he would take this very same seat on the balcony. Every. Single. Day.

Prince Adam stole one last glance at the idyllic scene, before getting to his feet and walking back inside. A long shadow slunk behind; it merged as easily as a jigsaw piece with those lingering in the gloomy interior. The room was clearly well kept, shown in the order of the furniture and animal fur rugs preserved in such a way that they seemed brand new. Nonetheless, if someone who didn't know the footsteps to the side of the bed like the back of his hand walked in, they would struggle to see just a few feet in front of them.

He sat down on the sheets and thought about nothing in particular. The idea of lighting a candle arose for a moment, only to be dismissed faster than it had arrived. He almost preferred it when was it was dark.

You're not going to look at that damn thing.

It should've been disposed of days ago- no, months ago. Why he didn't just ask the next maid to knock on his door to do so was completely inconceivable. But no one ever questioned him on the matter. Also understandable. A nauseating look of sympathy would flicker over their countenance, but upon receiving only a cold glare in response, they'd abandon his presence in a hurry. His rage was one thing many an unfortunate soul had been forced to experience.

The petals, once a deep red, tinged with pink, were reaching an advanced stage of putrefacation. The stalk's deep green had distorted into a murky brown. That enchanting, ethereal, angelic glow possessed so long ago were a far cry from its current state. So... dead. Their rose, rotting away into nothingness.

Perhaps he would hear her footsteps on the staircase, heading towards him. Perhaps he would hear her voice, melodic, velvet, calling him. He would run to her side. Kiss her. Embrace her. She'd taste sweet, like she always did.

With a shake of his head, Adam leant back onto the silk pillow, soft against a coarse cheek. That beautiful visage, and aromas of perfumes from the furthest reaches of the globe, lingered like haunting nightmares, bittersweet, enticing. Brunette hair. Chocolate eyes. The hint of blushes, fading, teasing, but never to be forgotten. Oh Be-

Something sharp jutted into his spine, causing him to wince. Feeling along the sheets told him this object's shape. Rectangular, wide, and carrying with it an apprehension. He knew that it was a book, namely, The Complete Works of Shakespeare. They had been reading through it at the time. He even knew what section it would be open to. The sonnets.

He hoped she remembered each perfect word like he did.

The large majority of the castle servants had lived there for a very long time. A few select veterans had even known the current master's grandfather, albeit shortly, before his untimely death at the hands of scarlet fever. Of course, they all felt an unusually strong affinity with Adam due to certain magical complications that may have arisen during the last two decades, and therefore, by default, with Belle.

Lumiere had never really experienced loss before that day, late last spring. He'd grown up in Paris (a fact which he boasted of as frequently as possible). His father was also a maitre'd, who earned his respectable keep in the household of a prominent clothing merchant. Many commented on how similar they were- dashingly handsome, suave and eloquent, well dressed and full of evident modesty. It seemed only natural that he take on the profession he'd been born into- indeed, the reputation for splendour and care which soon developed around him came from this inherited skill. And, none had been prouder of the invitation he soon received to work for Adam's father than his own. They still communicated. There hadn't been a week since his arrival that Lumiere wasn't seen sat in some secluded corner of the library, writing a new letter.

There wasn't, and never had been, a mother figure in his life. He'd never even learnt her name. But nothing could've prepared the maitre'd for her.

Before Belle came, life had descended into a dark place. Ghosts of happier times roamed the corridors as shadows, which bloomed as freely as weeds on their hearts. Hours slipped away. Days slipped away. Years. Clockwork. Ticking and ticking and ticking without anything happening. They forgot what humanity felt like in place of cold metal, china and cogs. Adam suffered the most. He was burdened by the knowledge that all the torment, and indeed, the only way out of their cages, lay solely on his shoulders.

She made them remember. Her footsteps held a magic that seemed to resonate in their souls, and bounce across stone walls, reverberating memories through the darkness. Suddenly, Lumiere recalled, they were no longer trapped as objects, inanimate and lifeless. Quite the opposite. It wasn't just the master who loved her.

A bright day in spring. A day as warm as pleasant as they'd all appeared since the lifting of the enchantment. Blue skies, without the slightest hint of a cloud obscuring that sun. If there were any powers above, then they decided to give them no warning. Death struck like lightning. Unexpected and deadly.

The wound it cut hadn't yet healed. Most likely never would. It made them all appreciate each other more. For Lumiere, Babette especially.

Right now, in a shady place, behind a suit of armour, they were kissing. It was one of their designated spots for "secret" meetings. A shared rule lay as secure as foundations for the staff; when the couple disappeared, you stayed well away. Perhaps they were would be seen holding hands while appearing from a bush in the gardens, or from a dusty supply cupboard, supposedly utilised for storing sweeping brooms. These excursions were certain as the sun, rising in the east, if you will.

Her lips were coloured by a pink lipstick. In the evenings, he often found himself washing its consequential stains from his cheeks and chest. Her taste, for some reason unbeknownst, recalled memories of mint leaves (Babette had insisted this was conjured up completely by his imagination). The expected thrill, excitement, pleasure, arousal, bubbled gently beneath his chest. Romance. An essential ingredient in a meal that would, without it, be bland. And no spice was more exotic than Babette's.

He parted their union for a heartbeat, partly to catch a much needed breath, and partly to speak. 'Mon cherie, your beauty only grows with the passing of each day.'

A practised hand movement that ended with his fingers resting on her curvaceous hips earnt a purr. 'That's a shame- your own good looks seem to do the opposite.'

'Allow me to disprove such a scandalous notion.'

Another kiss, sensual and sweet as the last. Lumiere wished that he could pull her closer, prove that she was his again, for fear that she might evaporate in his arms. Their very first embrace had been passionate. The closest to embraces they could manage during the curse had been passionate too, or at least, as much as possible. But since that spring, the slightest of touches, though fiery and intense, fervid, ranged close to desperate. It was a comfort. A ministration. Required for fear that the other may disappear and extinguish like a candle's brief flame. In her arms, he could feel his ego melting. Wax in a furnace.

Eyes opened. Brunette hair. Chocolate eyes. Ivory skin. The rosy tint on her cheeks.

Oh, too many memories.

'Lumiere? I need to talk to you.'

A male voice rang out, further up the corridor. Both he and Babette froze in place. The tone, posh and classy, yet also somewhat whinny, betrayed who was there. They couldn't remember the last time someone had interrupted a rendezvous, let alone the usually conscientious (needless to say embarrassed by the mere concept of love) Cogsworth.

'Oh honestly, don't pretend you're not there. Come out!'

Lumiere shared an annoyed glance with Babette, who shrugged. 'Not much point in ignoring him,' she whispered.

There was a pause, and then the pair emerged, arms still linked. The brown buttons on the top of the maitre'd's shirt were undone, and the maid, upon noticing, quickly readjusted the length of her skirt. The head of household had been in the process of approaching their hiding place- he came to stop as they did. Lumiere noted that the long term associate appeared to have been eating more heartily than usual. His plump frame jutted out wildly from his jacket.

'There you are,' Cogsworth said, glaring at them through an angled monocle. The disapproval on his face was thinly veiled. 'Must you insist on leaving during the middle of your shifts?'

Lumiere, disgruntled, lacked the patience to argue, but for the sake of reputation, he forced himself to be teasing. 'Oh come now Cogsworth. After all these years, you should be used to-'

'Used to it, perhaps. Impressed? Certainly not!'

A witty quip was about to follow, only for the interjection of Babette. 'Boys, I know you love to argue, but please, couldn't you at least try to get along? Everyone's getting tired of it.'

A few tense moments of silence, followed by extremely forced sighs and grunts of compliance. Her words rung true, for both Lumiere and Cogsworth would've been blind not to notice the eye rolls and genuine animosity that now arose from the rest of the staff whenever they quarrelled. Especially Mrs Potts. The last time they'd done so in her presence, ears had been ringing from the force of the resultant scolding for weeks.

She eyed them curtly, now satisfied with the straightening of her attire. 'Good. Now, I assume I'm not needed?'

A simple shake of the head.

'I'll be going then.'

The maid dutifully tilted her own, acknowledging the status of her superior. However, this show of respect was undermined by her leaving remark. 'Oh, and Cogsworth? Lumiere's right. You should be used to our relationship by now.'

And with that she was gone, sauntering down into another corridor on the left, in turn leading back to her quarters. That taste of mint leaves rested, imprinted, his lips teased. Wholeheartedly Lumiere lusted for her, desired her right back where she belonged. In his grasp, and no one else's.

In the midst of such thoughts, Cogsworth coughed awkwardly. 'Eh hem. Are- are things between you still going well?'

He almost clenched his fists. The pompous overgrown pocketwatch only bothered to be civil, despite how odd it appeared considering his hostility only seconds earlier, when he required a favour.

'What will it be this time then, mon ami? Need me to get across a message, since no one listens to you?'

Cogsworth practically bristled, but made no attempt at denial.

'So you admit it!'

'Of course not,' he snapped. 'But... I do need you to talk someone. It is, I think you'll agree, of paramount importance.'

'Who?'

'The master.'

Lumiere wondered if the man before him was broken, and, at long last, had well and truly snapped. Had the aforementioned pocketwatch lost some vital cog? Had the two hands come to a gentle stop, and counted their last second, minute, hour and day?

Sullen, downcast, despondent. Three emotions that, wiithout warning, had invaded his face. 'Come,' Cogsworth murmured. 'Walk with me.'

Lumiere obliged with a degree of doubt. Dislike, no matter how disagreeable, would've been preferred to this sudden and uncomfortable change.

They wandered in the opposite direction to which Babette had taken. Cogsworth took it upon himself to lead their footsteps, though without direction. Aimless. The lines of finely polished suits of armour soon gave way to large, stained glass windows. Sunlight bled through them; the blue skies provided a stunning canvas for serenity. Peaceful. And a welcomed summer breeze, occasionally itself finding a way through the glass. On careful observation, it was apparent that the head of household made for an interesting painting himself. Lumiere couldn't quite decide whether he was happy, sad or neither.

Eventually, and without warning, Cogsworth began to speak. 'Now, I'm sure that the master's plight, and indeed our own, needs no introduction.'

At once, he understood. It couldn't have been about anything else.

'You know how he has been acting for the past year. He barely speaks to anyone, even when dealing with matters concerning Lorraine and its subjects. Prince Adam- that may be his title, but he's essentially the ruler of the province now. And that carries a lot of responsibility.'

A careful intake of breath. 'Some days, I don't think that he gets out of bed.

'Surely you understand, old friend? I am dreadfully worried about him. He has experienced loss like no other, but this mourning... it has begun to-'

'And you claim to feel nothing?' Lumiere interrupted, colder than he'd intended.

'Do not insult me. I think of Belle every day.'

The two had stopped at this point. They stared out of a nearby window, looking at anything but each other. Neither wanted to show what they were feeling. They never would.

'I apologise. I didn't mean it like that.'

'I know.'

Silence.

Cogsworth closed his eyes, and then continued, 'Listen. I fully admit that you have always been closer to the master, no matter whether I'm his majordomo or not. I thought maybe if you spoke to him... you may help him to see sense.'

'I don't think anybody could make him feel better. He is in deep grief.'

'For more than a year? It's not natural.'

'Cogsworth, he will grieve her for the rest of his life.'

Lumiere had turned his head away from the window, with the intention of leaving. The subject of their previous mistress was close to being a taboo in the castle, for good reason. Talking of her, thinking of her, recalling her, was far too painful.

A hand with podgy fingers latched onto his shoulders, tight like pincers. 'Stay for awhile. Please.'

He did. For, deep down, his best friend.


	3. Chapter 2

Alike

Chapter Two:

Once, in the naive days of her childhood, Elaine had visited Versailles. Back then, her only worry manifested as a missing plaything, or whether it was sunny enough to go outside, but even in a state of mind as carefree as that it had impressed her. She couldn't quite recall why her father required to make the visit; she could, however, recall her ladies in waiting fussing over her dress for what felt like hours. The trip to Paris had taken almost a week from Alsace, and for the entirety of it her parents had stressed how important it was to appear like a perfect little princess for the courtiers. The palace, in the late afternoon, appeared to be adorned in every precious metal the world could boast, from gold, silver to bronze. Architecture of centuries ago still beheld an impressive aura of wealth and aristocratic power.

Her mother had still been alive back then. She was a presence of comfort. Solid. Instilling in her the confidence to speak politely to the faces covered in makeup and dressed in clothes at the height of fashion. How that woman walked with such grace astounded her. Her radiant beauty outshone everyone in the banquet hall. Her elegance put all the other's waltzing skills to shame. She'd wanted to be exactly alike, down to the smallest detail.

Of course, she loved Maxime very much. He provided the figure of reliability in his wife's absence to the very best of his abilities, and raised her with as much affection as any child could possibly hope for. But there is nothing more special and intimate than the maternal bond; perhaps this was why, when she saw the castle for the first time, the man sitting opposite in the carriage gave her no inner reassurance.

It arose from the trees like a marble guardian of the surrounding land. The grand spires reached up and clawed at the heavens, gliding amongst the solitary white clouds. Even from a distance, one could make out dozens upon dozens of angelic sculptures. This was the castle deeply ingrained in everyone's imagination- where the fairy tale prince and princess lived on, happy for evermore. Those courtiers would've attempted not to be impressed and failed. And, as an awe inspired gasp past her lips upon reaching the iron gates, she thought it was somehow more intimidating than the palace they'd inhabited.

Yet again, Elaine stole a glance at her father, who was also looking through the second carriage window. Somehow who couldn't read the slightest changes in his expression like the back of their hand might say he was stony faced; the small upturning of his lips, and the barely noticeable rise of his left eyebrow betrayed his true feelings. The man who lived here must possess wealth beyond all reasoning, far surpassing their own.

The prospect of meeting said man may have once filled her with apprehension. Was her corset tight enough? Did she look silly with her hair held back? Elaine didn't think of herself as vain and, if there had been a stage where she once lingered a little too long in front of a mirror, it had long since passed. One easily fell into a routine if dealing with those of high societal status. You greeted them with a low curtsy. They'd kiss your hand. Then, you'd indulge them in whatever conversation matter they wished. Usually themselves, or some recently aquired piece of jewellery. Therefore, Elaine had come to view such highly coveted possessions as, in truth, shallow. Empty. Lacking in anything but their transparent visage of monetary value. Resembling their owners, she often thought.

Morale high ground, however, could not dispel instinctive feelings of fear. It was deeply rooted in the psyche all humans to be wary of those who boasted more than yourself. These slight yet noticeable nerves fluttered like proverbial butterflies in her stomach.

The carriage slowed as they approached the doors of the castle. Wheels scraped and jumped on the stones. As a result, her view was somewhat obscurred, but she could make out the figure of a man waiting for them. This immediately struck her as a little unusual. It was customary for a host to greet any arriving guests at the door; indeed, they tended to make a big show of it. Various entourages and servants would stand by his or her side. Once, they'd even been treated to fanfare from a marching band. There was no profligacy here, which struck her as a stark contrast to the clear statement made by the castle. Nonetheless, she decided to think nothing of it.

'Remember Elaine,' her father said, catching her by surprise. There was a stern look on his face. 'I don't want any nonsense.'

She quickly nodded, but as soon as his gaze was diverted, she rolled her eyes. The assumption that she behaved poorly, seemingly held by all those who knew her, was unfounded. She always spoke with decorum. Her manners were perfect. Impeccable. It would surprise her if anyone said otherwise. Yet on the occasion of almost all visits, a warning to be on best behaviour had become inevitable.

True, she would always complain about the nobles she met (for extended periods of time), but that was beside the point.

One final lurch, and then they came to a grinding halt. Their driver tapped on the roof with his cane, signalling the end of the journey, before he leapt down to the ground and opened the side door. This man was a long serving presence in their household. His name was Andre. Wrinkles, along with a long, pointed nose, contributed to the picture of respect but quiet dignity.

Maxime tilted his head to him, taking the easy step out of the carriage. Elaine lifted her skirt and stood to follow, although she couldn't beat the aging hand being offered.

'Allow me, miss,' Andre simpered.

She controlled the smirk threatening to burst free. It was proper etiquette, but something about his delivery was hilariously old fashioned.

The lack of a formal greeting was even more apparent than she'd first thought. Her father was already walking over to their greeter, though she paused for a moment to pet the horses. They were brown, chestnut, and stamped in appreciation at her attention. The one closest sniffed at her gloved hand, earning a smile. Often, when she decided to drop in at the manor stables, she would bring sugar as a special treat.

'Greetings,' came an almost sickeningly posh voice. 'I am Cogsworth, majordomo to the Prince of Lorraine. Welcome to our castle.'

Finally, Elaine turned to face their greeter, coming to her father's side. He was in the middle of a low bow, and clad in dark brown attire typical of his post. His waistcoat was done up with shiny black buttons. A grey wig adorned his head. It immediately struck that he had to be one of the most extreme cases of obesity she'd ever seen, and just passing middle age. The ridiculously large monocle, chained pocketwatch and what she'd heard of his voice so far assured her he could give Andre a run for his money.

The notion that he would be rude to his inferiors crossed her mind, solely due to the fact he was staring directly at her.

It wasn't even subtle, and unfortunately not something she was unused to. Elaine wasn't naive. She knew why men at parties would steal one too many glances in her direction, or rather, one too many glances downwards. Nonetheless, any compliments of beauty she considered to be mere exaggeration to earn her favour. Pretty at most. Alluring? Divine? No. She did not teach the candles to burn bright, in the words of Shakespeare.

But this... this was a different kind of staring. This was full of a strange, burning intensity that left her feeling uncomfortable. This was the kind that peeled away at your skin, roughly inspecting the depths of your soul. She expected lust, or interest, or something- something normal. What this was, she had no idea.

The man, Cogsworth, wasn't showing any signs of stopping. Brown eyes nervously darted over the dress she wore. It was a fashionable and refined choice. The amount of petticoats were reasonable, all made from a fine silk, whereas the outer skirt was some form of satin. Milk white. Reasonable. Her shoulders were exposed, but surely that wasn't what had appeared to disturb him.

And her father had noticed. The polite smile he usually adopted was beginning to morph, transform, into a tiny frown. He was just as confused.

A cough. 'Excuse me? This is my daughter, Elaine.'

For some inexplicable reason, she felt as if a cold wind had suddenly been whipped up, chilling her ivory skin. Meaning to break the tension, the princess dropped into a curtsy, averting her eyes.

Then suddenly, the bizarre, shocked stupour disappeared. Cogsworth shook himself and straightened the monocle, fingers moving rapidly. Was it her imagination, or were those patent leather shoes, sealed by a brass buckle, shaking? Was his lower lip trembling?

'Y- yes. My sincerest apologies.'

Silence.

Maxime took a step towards the wooden doors of the castle meaningfully. 'Perhaps you could show us inside?' It was formal but commanding. A reminder of, considering the majordomo's lack of status compared to their own, how rude in actuality he'd been.

He would've been blind not to catch on. Mumbling some incoherent nonsense under his breath, he gestured for them to follow him inside. 'Yes sir. Right away sir.'

The doors swung open, giving them the first glimpse of where they'd be staying for the week. Everything was indicative of priviledge. An entrance hall large enough to fit in a hundred men or more. A blood red carpet, woven with golden seams, leading up to the main staircase, in turn breaking off to rooms of no doubt unparalleled magnificence. The ceiling was so far up she had to crane her neck, and fine candalabras stood atop tables of shining wood. To Elaine's left and right, corridors took you off to other sections of the castle. The warm light of a fireplace burnt through a nearby doorway, for despite it being late afternoon, long shadows still lurked in the darkest corners, snatching at their legs. It took a heartbeat to take it all in. Appreciate. Admire.

Cogsworth, acclimatised to how incredible the interior was, escorted them to the staircase. Inbetween an explanation of the neo-classic Baroque and minimalist Rococo designs of any interesting structures they passed, an additional reassurance of regret towards his "unintentional" impertinence was issued. Maxime acknowledged the babble with a grunt, but his shoulders stayed stiff.

Elaine found that her tongue had gone stiff too. One could usually guarantee her to make passable small talk, but moving through the corridors helped her to see just how off-colour the entirety of their welcome had been. The absence of their host, this mysterious recluse, was disrespectful to say the least and borderline insulting. She'd met some inflated egos in her time, but to completely disregard the Lord of another region was completely unheard of. Then, his head of household's reaction. Surely all the women who played guest to him didn't receive similar treatment?

She thought about what she knew, or had heard, of the infamous Prince Adam of Lorraine. Most of it was based solely on gossip and speculation. The reason his title was elevated over that of a regular Lord was down to some distant relation to the King himself. A half cousin, or something along those lines. He and his father had been given this grand retreat, and rarely left it. She retained vague recollections from other noble women, or even her eager maids, that the aforementioned father died in circumstances too specific to also recall. That must've been a decade ago.

No one had heard of anything for the long years leading up to two summers past. His province ran smoothly, without interruption from plague, famine or lack of resource. Indeed, she was certain she didn't think of the Prince at all. For reasons unbeknownst, he fell out of the limelight. Slipped to the furthest recesses of everyone's mind. That is, until he announced his intention to marry.

Naturally, the news sent the excessive gossipers of France into overdrive. The fact a known handsome bachelor, a worthy prize for any lady, without warning wished to settle down was motive to spread rumours enough. That, added to the decidedly odd conditions enveloping the chosen girl, sparked even her interest. Despite some needless to say suspect proof of regal blood, Elaine heard many claim she was a simple peasant. The marriage went ahead anyway. Any complains appeared unheeded and un-listened to. At the time, she'd considered the relationship refreshing. How often was it that an aristocrat married purely for love, rather than personal gain? It had a romantic feel; happily ever after.

And then, the girl had died.

This, she remembered clearly as the sun in the sky. She'd been busy practising a few finger exercises on the fortepiano, when all of a sudden she heard excited chatter billowing under the door. Servants. In the midst of an F sharp major arpeggio, she attempted to tune it out. Only when unexpected words, clear, resonating like a shout though in truth barely a whisper, pierced her eardrums did she stop and take note.

'Did you hear-'

'-oh yes! What dram-'

'-I could not believe she'd died-'

'-and only a year after-'

'-Prince Adam must be heartbroken.'

Only when Cogsworth stopped in front of them did she re-emerge from the memories. They'd arrived in a longer but narrow corridor- on each side, there were numerous doors, most likely opening into a guest room. Maxime's eyes had only hardened in the time she'd been absent, leaving her to assume the majordomo's incessant whittering hadn't ceased.

He twisted a nearby handle, which was sculpted to resemble a lion. 'This is your room, my Lord. I'm sure you'll find everything to your satisfaction.'

Another monosyllabic grunt. 'Our host decides not to appear then? I hope this is considered regular in Lorraine.'

The barbed comment caused obvious discomfort. 'Ah. Yes. Well, allow me to assure you it is certainly not the master's intention to offend. And, ah, I sincerely hope there be no discomfort caused by my own little indiscretion-'

'Thank you. That will be all.'

Her father closed the door with little subtlety, and both who'd been standing in his presence winced. Elaine knew all too well that when he did get angry, Maxime possessed very little self-restraint. They'd both been made to feel uncomfortable and unwelcome. She just hoped he didn't make a fuss of the situation over dinner.

But now she was alone, with a man who was blatantly avoiding contact of any kind. He was looking aywhere but her. The floor. The nearby suit of armour. The ceiling. It was as if she harboured a disease so contagious it could be spread by a passing blink.

'Your room is up here,' he said softly.

She tried desperately to unlock her tongue and speak, but words, defiant and unreasoning, had all but deserted her. All Elaine managed was a half-hearted mutter of compliance.

The room was only three more along. No sign as to why this was chosen over the others, but these doors were doubled in size. Perhaps more luxurious?

Cogsworth's whole body language betrayed a palpable anxiety unfathomable to her. Her head cocked to one side as he opened up her suite, revealing a typical but grandly designed set up. There was an enormous four poster bed, king sized, with curtains and pale pink sheets.

'This is lovely,' she managed finally.

Elaine resisted the temptation to take in his response and stepped inside. The windows were large and strangely forbidding. A rounded dresser table and cabinet were placed to the left.

'I- I do hope you enjoy your stay. One of our maids will attend you before dinner.'

'Thank you, Cogsworth.'

With that, the click of metal brushing across wood followed and the highly ranked servant scuttled off. The sound of his footsteps came through loud and clear: he was on the verge of a run. Running from her.

Elaine rubbed her eyes with her fingers. The fabric they were encased in, albeit soft, stung a little, so she removed them and placed them on the dresser. Once more, she checked over her dress to see if the cause of the man's actions was due to some fault in her appearance. Nothing. Not the slightest trace.

Unsettled. That was the right emotion.

Like he'd seen a ghost.

The reflection beheld in the mirror displayed a man at the peak of his masculinity. Large, broad shoulders and muscle definition showed that adolescence had faded into obscurity, yet youth still remained. His brown hair had tones of red, and was tied into an agreeable ponytail. Defined, prominent cheekbones. Handsome to the most insignificant detail.

These natural, aesthetically pleasing features were contrasted expertly by the posh and well-tailored outfit. They'd spent at least half the morning getting everything fit, as was expected before a banquet. The jacket were a shade he wore often. Deep navy blue, with gold lining. It was a style he was especially fond of, so much so that on his insistence simple furniture around the castle also had the same design. Notably the entrance rug. It bore a reminder of a dance. Their dance.

Finally, the overall look was topped off with jet-black shorts, woven similarly. He brushed a speck of dust from the hem.

'Remind me where this Lord is from?' he grumbled.

'Alsace, dear,' replied Mrs Potts.

Adam tore himself away from the mirror to take in the reliable old housekeeper, hunched over her equally reliable old tea tray. She was pouring him a cup as they spoke. Chamomile. His favourite.

He stepped over and she handed it to him. Drinking deeply, his eyes went over the familiar face, as comforting as anything in their home. Her china blue eyes glowed with a stern but soft countenance, serving as a reminder of her current mood. He wondered if he was imagining the extra wrinkles along her cheeks. Old age was creeping up on the motherly figure faster than any wanted to pay attention to.

Her tea deliveries were routine. Indeed, Mrs Potts was the only person the Prince regularly allowed into his quarters. She always managed to be gentle, despite frequently scolding him in earnest for things she disapproved of. He knew that there was soon to be a monumental "little chat" as she liked to refer to them. Lumiere had attempted to make him be more active at the request of Cogsworth. They would resort to her eventually.

He sensed, however, that her issue today was down to the matter currently distacting him.

'It's lovely,' Adam told her, monotone.

Mrs Potts saw straight through the flattery. 'They are here about cloth trading.'

'I know.'

'The Lord's name is Maxime, and the-'

'I know.'

It was a complete lie. He hadn't a clue what the father's name was before she told him, and due to the interruption, he still didn't know what the girl was called. Adam had watched them arrive, in a wooden carriage led by chestnut brown horses, from his balcony. Cogsworth had been sent to greet them, and because of the distance he hadn't been able to determine what they were truly like. Both were bound to the be the usual sort. So caught up in their own world, and the possibilities of personal gain that being acquainted to him could necessitate, that they forgot to be likeable or engaging. The man would be impotent in all senses of the word. The girl would be a dirty slut, trying to tempt him away from his wife.

The anger, boiling so close to the surface these days, rose up. His snap did nothing to change her expression, however. Of course it wouldn't.

'Sorry,' he forced. 'It's just these meetings. Merde, they're so borin-'

'Watch your language. Honestly, sometimes it's like talking to Chip again.'

This was, for Mrs Potts, an insult of the highest regard. Much like a child, he turned away from her and hissed another obscenity under his breath.

He half expected her to leave, taking the tray with her, but thirty years of experience with the housekeeper informed that such an act was wholly unlike her. As if on cue, a cautious hand rested on a stiffened shoulder.

'Dear... I know you don't want to hear this but... you have to learn to accept things for what they are. I don't know any details, but I'm sure maintaining good relationships with other provinces is important. When you're father was here, and everything was easier, you could get away with not greeting guests but... oh listen to me, whittering on. I'm beginning to sound like Cogsworth.'

Adam almost smiled.

'Try to be careful down there, you hear me? Chef Bouche has prepared a lovely meal. Just be yourself.'

The reassurance wasn't needed, but he appreciated her willingness to give it. The Prince already knew exactly how he was going to act towards his esteemed guests. An aloof, "I'm better than you" approach would do nicely.

He brushed her hand off his shoulder and moved over to the exit of the West Wing, focusing on getting into an appropriate mindset for the dull couple of hours that were to follow. A window displayed a sunset sky of pinks, vibrant oranges and blackened clouds.

Soon, he was making his way towards the ballroom. Lumiere had insisted upon having the "banquet" (an odd choice of word in his opinion as there would only be three attending) for it was the most impressive place they could show off. The length of the table made it infuriatingly difficult to converse, but did result in a somewhat overwhelming effect. There would be music from the castle composer, Fife, but no dancing. He'd discovered a dislike for such frivolity without her.

Down one more corridor and Prince Adam arrived at the archway. There were two entrances to the ballroom, both connected to a staircase where traditionally the male and female would enter respectively, and then join at the midpoint. It had once been well used.

Lumiere was waiting for him, in his usual get up, aside from an additional waistcoat. 'Good evening, master,' he said, each word emphasised by his thick accent.

'Lumiere,' he replied slowly, peeking around the archway and down to the foot of the staircase. He could see their guests. The man, Maxime, wore red, but his attention was captured by the silk white dress worn by his daughter. They were still too far away to see in full view. 'I trust the preparation went according to plan?'

'Yes sire. I'm sure you'll adore Angelique's decoration, but... I should...'

He trailed off, and Adam frowned. It was rare the maitre'd, renowned for his smooth talking, found himself short of words. Perhaps his imagination played tricks, but he was certain the Parisian was a little spooked.

'What is it?'

'I should say... the madmoiselle... she is...'

Lumiere couldn't finish his sentence. The frown deepened.

'Ah, is that our host?'

The clipped ringing of the Lord of Alsace came from below. He had noticed them at the archway.

Adam perceived the servant's odd endeavour at a warning a moment longer, before deciding he couldn't exactly ignore those waiting for him. Abandoning Lumiere at the top, he begun his descent.

There was music playing from the opposite corner of the ballroom. A small orchestra, conducted by the gangly form of Maestro Fife. The composer, traditionally a piccolo player, had proved himself to be an excellent member of the court and worthy of all the compliments he received. The piece written specifically for this evening was a waltz, led by a harpsichord and virtuosic string parts. Music was a pleasure Adam often stopped to appreciate, but here, it only served to disorientate. The waltz danced, soared, tripped at his feet, as he was finally permitted a proper look at the two nobles.

The various candelabras and chandeliers created a burning light. Ballroom, stairway, music, all combined into a furious golden haze. A magical enchantment that ensnared his senses and enraptured his soul. He was a Beast once more. His feet were paws and his fingers were sharp talons, vicious, ready to scratch and maim and kill. The whole world spun around her face. Her dress. Her beauty.

It was her. It had to be. She had the same deep brown hair. The same pale, ivory skin. The same light flush on her cheeks. But it couldn't be. Belle was dead- of that much Prince Adam was certain- and yet here another girl stood, like he was looking at his wife's portrait.

Belle was alive.


End file.
